


Never Alone

by Altenprano



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Ep26 spoilers, Minor Angst, a little bittersweet, the traveler kind of appears so he's here and so is vax, this is short but i couldn't get the image out of my brain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 06:41:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15382926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altenprano/pseuds/Altenprano
Summary: A stick planted upright in the ground isn’t hard to miss.





	Never Alone

**Author's Note:**

> After this week's episode, I couldn't shake the image of Molly's coat on the stick, and so here is a brief reflection of who might have come to watch and pay respects to the tiefling after his untimely death.

A stick planted upright in the ground isn’t hard to miss.

On the stick hangs a coat. From far away, it is simple, hem almost touching the ground, with wide sleeves. Up close, it is elaborate, the stories of gods and magic woven in vibrant brocade. A peacock unfolds his fathers across the back, and a dragon winds around a sleeve, while silken tendrils reach towards the grinning moon. It hangs still, but when the soft breeze blows, it shifts, and the designs flash like the scales of a fish in a clear stream.

It is a simple monument to the man who lies buried there, and those who pass by might recognize the coat from many years ago, when a carnival came through their village in a flurry of twirling flame and color, all set to the sound of a half-elf’s violin. They may recall the man who wore it, the lavender tiefling, jewels and baubles adorning his curling horns, making a sound like small bells as they touch, casting light every which way as he dances about, twirling elaborately decorated scimitars. They may recall the sly curl of his lip as he spread three cards before him—past, present, and future—and the soft lilt of his voice as he explained their meanings, tracing the spines of the dragon or the silhouette of the lovers.

To those who do not know the patterns on the coat, it is but a monument to some unknown soul, unlucky enough to have fallen victim to the many dangers of this road. There is no name for them to include in their prayers, only a coat hanging on a stick—no doubt the bandits that frequent this stretch of road will take it soon enough—and so they pass by the monument, this unknown grave, and continue their journey.

A raven keeps faithful watch from a nearby tree, a shadow against the grey winter sky. He watches the coat flutter in the wind one evening, then watches as frost gathers along the hem in the morning, drawing the brocade stiff with cold.

He watches as a hooded figure, the only features his quick eyes can discern beneath the cowl are a pair of verdant green eyes, approaches. The figure pauses before the monument, and the raven can feel the strangeness of this creature, not divine, but not mortal either—somewhere in between then. The strange, green-eyed creature does not disturb the coat, or the man buried beneath, and so the raven pays him no mind, and continues watching.


End file.
